


venus, goddess of love & beauty

by sugandt



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Existentialism, F/M, Zaveid is bi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-07 16:29:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15223157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugandt/pseuds/sugandt
Summary: Lailah considers her role as the Prime Lord, and what she has to show for it. Zaveid comes along at just the right time.“I couldn’t forget you, Lady Lailah,” Zaveid says, “even if I tried.”





	venus, goddess of love & beauty

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I'm so sorry this is not a LIBADYE update.  
> 2\. There is a disturbing lack of ZaveLai in the TOZ realm  
> 3\. This is very reminiscent of my 2014 angst pieces but honestly, there wasn't enough angst in the game for what it was worth... so I'm just doing my civic duty  
> 4\. I haven't played Berseria but yall like Zaveid/Eizen, right? That's what the kids like, right?  
> 5\. Please try to enjoy-- I haven't written anything for months and this genuinely took me a week  
> 6\. Zaveid is bisexual. Change my mind

Sat upon on the edge of her bed, Lailah waits patiently for the Shepherd, Sorey, and his Squire, Rose, to at long last rest their heads upon a plush pillow, and fall asleep for the evening. Recently, the days have become longer, the nights shorter, and by the time they retire, both humans have little energy left. Yet they push on, and Lailah does her best to maintain their health while they venture. It’s strenuous. It’s taxing. It’s almost awful. Sorey must drive himself to his wits’ end with his worry, Lailah thinks, a ball of anxiety festering within him, so many questions and doubts and thoughts he must not entertain if he is to complete his mission of purification. 

Lailah lets a small sigh slip through her lips as she runs a comb through the ends of her hair. Curtains drawn back, the small room in Pendrago fills with moonlight, hues of blue and purple and grey. If one were to witness her indecency at the moment, they would think she is getting ready to sleep for the night. Her headband rests neatly on the bedside table, with her gown and brasserie hung up in the closet above her pumps and ribbons. It would be ridiculous to sleep in such an intricate ensemble. Holding eye contact with herself in the mirror, Lailah watches as she brushes out her fringe, then the short hairs that frame her chin. Her eyes travel down to her swan-like neck, her collarbone. The slope and swell of her breasts, the subtle curve of her hips. She feels utterly strung out, yet still does not tire.

Redressing herself, Lailah ties her hair back with little care, so it does not get in her way. She wears only half of her gown, the undergarments, and passes on her pumps. She plans to wander the streets of Pendrago, and she has plenty of gels and healing artes if something were to happen to the soles of her feet. Before exiting her room, Lailah pulls a crimson veil over her body. Despite it being a piece of armour, she finds it rather comfortable and stylish. It does not look like a garment that would serve any sort of protection, but rather a cloak that one would wear while strolling through a forest. Upon the bedside table, there is also a stack of square papers, and she takes a handful. 

She closes her door as quietly as possible, locking it and then slipping the key up her sleeve for safekeeping, right where she keeps her fighting papers. Keeping her steps light, Lailah even holds her breath as she passes Sorey’s room, releasing it when she slips out of the front door of the inn. There is a place in mind that she would like to visit, a place where she can overlook the city, and be alone with her thoughts and the nighttime breeze tousling her hair. Leisurely making her way through the cobblestone streets of Pendrago, Lailah lets herself feel everything, From the tall flowers that grow to the vines that crawl up the walls, to the wind that feels questionably warm, which she blames on the fact that the day was hot in itself. The season must be in the midst of changing.

When Lailah reaches her elevated destination, she lets her shoulders fall, and her head loll forth, letting the exhaustion by the journey thus far overtake her body. She thinks of the future that is so incredibly uncertain, yet predictable down to the minute. How many shepherds must she guide, how many must she forge bonds with only to watch them ripped to pieces in front of her very eyes? Is the purpose of her existence to guide shepherds to their deaths? At the thought of this, her blood runs cold and her eyes well up with tears. She wipes the tears away as soon as they threaten to fall-- this is not the time to be waxing poetic about her late night existential thoughts; there are more pressing matters at hand. Of course, those matters must wait until morning when the Shepherd and his Squire are fully rested. Lailah, who rarely sleeps anyway, pulls one of the square papers from her sleeve. This always helps to quell her thoughts, ease her mind. When practising the fine art of origami, it’s as if her mind goes blank and her body is on autopilot. She waits a moment for her eyes to dry, and then she begins to fold.

Zaveid rises from where he has been kneeling for what feels like hours in front of the Pendrago Shrinechurch. He does not know how else to pay his respects, for he feels it would be unkind of him to not even thank Dezel while in the spot where he so devastatingly passed. Zaveid’s-- Dezel’s top hat has been placed upon the stairs leading up to the Shrinechurch, and Zaveid had knelt all the way down so that his hair became a thick curtain around his body and his forehead touched the ground. Zaveid knows the others doubt and are wary of his authenticity-- or lack thereof. But Zaveid thinks his actions speak volumes in comparison to his words, and he hopes that the others will think the same with time. He picks up Dezel’s hat, says his final thank you to the breeze as it floats by, and begins the walk back to the inn. 

It is right in front of the inn that Zaveid hears a rather peculiar sound. A woman’s humming, he believes. Usually, Zaveid would be able to ignore the sound and retreat to his room with ease, but this time, it is too familiar of a sound. The piece, he does not know, but he recognizes Lailah’s voice from miles away-- he always does. Zaveid feels compelled to find the source, Lailah, and speak with her. As the wind carries her voice towards him, he follows it back, through the residential area, up to a lookout. The fire Seraph sits upon the edge of the lookout, three origami works by her side. 

Zaveid has never seen Lailah looking so… defeated. Sure, he has witnessed her knocked out on the battlefield. Once he had to pick up her frail body and carry her away from the raging beast while the others followed suit, still attempting to fend it off while he brought Lailah to safety in the Volgran Forest. But this, her weary expression and hunched shoulders, looks as if it hurts far more than a battle wound. It is when Zaveid takes a step too loud, disturbs the silence, that Lailah jolts and swivels to give him a surprised look. Neither of them knows what to say, frozen in place, Lailah’s lips parted. Delicate.

“I…” Lailah struggles, “Zaveid…”

“What are you doing awake, all the way up here?” Zaveid takes his chances and takes another step, to which Lailah responds by moving a little, making room for him to sit. Opening up to him. She is quiet until he takes a seat beside her, only the origami keeping them apart. 

 

“Oftentimes I come up here to think,” Lailah looks down at her fingers, a little sore now from the folding. Zaveid follows her gaze, “It is quiet, and my mind is so…” she trails off.

“You’re overwhelmed,” Zaveid observes, “Can’t imagine what it’s like to be the Prime Lord.”

“Yes,” Lailah’s voice is soft, “Overwhelmed is exactly how I would describe it.”

Zaveid is unsure what to say next, but Lailah continues for him, “Although, Zaveid. You are the only one who can fathom what it is like.”

“Me?”

“You’ve lost so many humans, so many Seraphim friends,” Lailah says, “and yet you keep going. I wonder how you do it.”

This much is true-- Zaveid no longer remembers his age, but he must be nearing a millennia and a half, if not already there. Throughout his lifetime, he has befriended, lost, loved, and lost some more. And as Lailah said, he is still here, he still continues onward. But he cannot think of a reason why, or how. He just does. Lailah frowns. No use in pestering Zaveid into giving her a reason to live, as dramatic as that sounds. Before Zaveid can think of anything to say, Lailah gestures for Zaveid to display his open palms to her, instead of dwelling on her words. In his hands, she places one of her origami pieces.

“There are rumours that if you let this take off in the wind, it will reach those who have passed on. I do this to remember the past Shepherds; so they know I am still doing all I can to continue their legacy and reach their goal.”

“Could I send it to Dezel?” Zaveid asks, admiring the careful folds of the paper, grateful for Lailah changing the subject. He’s not one to get that existential when he lacks sleep, but Lailah on the other hand is the type that would let herself get too lost in her thoughts when there is nobody around to keep her grounded. How did she manage to stay sane while living in the Sacred Blade?

“I believe Dezel would appreciate that very much,” Lailah’s lips, for the first time that evening, curl upwards in a ghost of a smile. Zaveid gives her one back, although a little sad. 

As Zaveid begins to murmur an incantation under his breath to let the piece take flight, Lailah starts to hum again, her eyes drifting shut. For a moment, when time seems to stop and everything hangs suspended in the air, he thinks Lailah looks beautiful beneath the moonlight. Her cape drapes around her body, reaching above her knees, and a part of Zaveid wonders if it is as soft as it looks. And then the origami crane is taking off, floating as if it is a ship setting sail upon the sea, and Lailah’s eyes are opening again, heavy. As Zaveid’s wind arte begins to fade, Lailah picks up the second crane, releasing it into the air that is tinted with a lovely green. For a short while, the pair sits in comfortable silence, revelling in their own thoughts, until the moon has reached the highest point in the sky. 

“Shall we depart?” Lailah asks, head tilted back to admire the stars, the constellations. 

“Your wish is my command,” Zaveid says.

He steps down from the ledge first, then reaches out to help Lailah climb down as well. She places her lithe fingers in his awaiting hand, and climbs down from the lookout, free hand keeping her skirt in place. She has an aura of propriety and modesty to maintain. She does not miss that he keeps hold of her hand even as they walk back to the inn.

How is it she is hundreds of years old, yet still feels embarrassed when holding hands with a man? This is like the romance novels she used to read! Strolling through a city, hand in hand, admiring the abundance of fruits, items, weapons, armour. And the accessories! Oh, she’s getting carried away. She cannot help herself though, not when Zaveid’s warmth radiates off his half-dressed body painted with white tattoos, not when he so kindly stayed with her at the lookout. 

“Lailah, you’re tense,” Zaveid observes, uncharacteristically awkward, when they reach the door to the inn, “You should try to get some sleep, alright?”

“Of course,” Lailah says, knowing that she will at most rest her eyes. That is always enough to get her through another day of healing, armatizing, casting incantations. Although, she feels the day where it is not enough is soon approaching. 

“And if you can’t, run yourself a hot bath.”

“...A hot bath?” Lailah questions, cocking her head. What a strange thing for Zaveid today, and so plainly at that! “You’re not going to… be improper?” 

“Me? Improper?” Zaveid flashes her a smile, albeit a tired one, “Never.”

Lailah’s mind floods with images from the few romance texts she once read: the male suitor working the knots from the female protagonist’s shoulders, his strong hands slipping down her arms, down her sides, gently cupping her ribs, then even further down to her waist, hips... is she blushing? Can Zaveid see it? She wants to suggest they enter the inn, but she can tell Zaveid does not want the night to end yet. Truth be told, neither does Lailah. Her intrusive thoughts nearly go into overdrive, as she imagines Zaveid’s hands on her shoulders, kneading out the tension and rekindling her flame. There is no way he cannot see the blush on her cheeks! Zaveid parts his lips to speak, but Lailah beats him to it. 

“Shall we go inside?” Lailah asks, voice rising in pitch, “It is frightfully cold out here!” 

Zaveid follows suit, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. The only people inside are the receptionist, who’s napping away at the front desk, and a wayfaring traveller counting their possessions on a low table. Lailah’s heartbeat picks up, how embarrassing of her. She mentally curses her body. Oh, how she does not want to retreat to her room and wait there, alone, until dawn.

As if he can read her thoughts, Zaveid says something along the lines of would you like to come to my room? as eloquently than Lailah would imagine. So she nods, says she needs to grab a few things from her own room, and lets go of his hand. Then she regrets it. 

Careful not to wake the shepherd, Zaveid windsteps back to his own room, giving Lailah a wink and a subtle raise of his eyebrows. She laughs to herself, entering her room. She takes the hood off her cape, noting her messed up hair, and picks up her comb yet again, then she brings a tin of loose tea and her small silver spoon. A twin set of teacups is already in each room when one stays the night at the inn, as well as other miscellaneous necessities. 

Zaveid’s room is a mirror image of Lailah’s, but a little messier. His jewellery is placed on the bedside table, right next to Siegfried and his pendulum. Lailah takes a moment to admire his weaponry and how he takes such good care of them before she pulls the pair of teacups from the cupboard. Zaveid takes them, gently, from her hands to fill them with lukewarm water. At this, he looks rather disappointed. 

“Have you forgotten already?” Lailah teases lightly, then casts a small fire art that flickers in her palms, “I am a Seraph of fire.”

“I couldn’t forget you, Lady Lailah,” Zaveid says, “even if I tried.”

When the tea has steeped to both of their likings, Lailah removes as many of the leaves as she can with her spoon and places them upon the saucer. After she places the spoon down, Zaveid takes the opportunity to reach over, and interlace her fingers within his own.

“Is this alright?” 

“Yes,” Lailah affirms. It is more than alright. 

Lailah thinks Zaveid’s behaviour to be atypical, as he is often quite the skirt-chaser, making everyone in their party cringe with embarrassment, or turn a deep pink-- sometimes his innuendos go too far. He sits in front of her, usual smirk wiped from his face. Even his small adornments have been removed. Although he still travels with a certain vigour, Lailah is sure Zaveid also has his fair share of burdens. Once, he had sat with Lailah, long before the Shepherd Sorey was even a thought, intoxicated beyond Lailah’s understanding, and told her all about another party he used to run with. Another Shepherd. And then another. The Lord of Calamity. A man, a Reaper, blond and blue-eyed, he was in love with, a man who let himself go. 

She wonders how Zaveid can talk about love so easily after Eizen. After a battle with a mere goblin and its little cart, Zaveid will sometimes ask Edna and Lailah how love makes them feel. Although Lailah knows he is trying to pull their strings, she wants to tell him the truth; she’s not sure how love makes her feel. She wants to turn the question back unto him, ask him what it felt to be with that man, that dragon they had slain! How awful it must be to kill the one you were once so intimate with… Oh how badly she would like to know all about poor Eizen, but she would hate to overstep Zaveid’s boundaries. So she does not, and will not ask. 

“Zaveid,” Lailah says as she places her cup down next to Siegfried, “your hair is just dreadful.” 

“Huh…?” Zaveid seems surprised by this, eyebrows drawing together in a look of confusion. Lailah brings it up, only to quell her intrusive thoughts before she can bombard Zaveid with questions about his life. 

“I have heard once of a woman who let a great spirit of wind style her hair for her,” she says, “but I think you have taken it too far.” 

With Zaveid’s permission, Lailah runs her comb through the ends of his hair, brushing out all the small knots and tangles. She does this methodically, the way she does with her own hair. Zaveid begins to lean into her, like a dog while it’s getting its ears scratched. Lailah sections off a piece of his hair and combs through it twice, then works on the next section. Despite being so tousled and knotted, his hair remains soft, a beautiful ombre of white to pale green. Her fingers work a braid into a part of Zaveid’s hair, and she thinks it would look rather cute with tiny wildflowers in it. She makes a mistake with the braid, then starts again. 

“Are you serious?” Lailah’s question is sudden, but curiosity has gotten the best of her.

“I’m always serious!” Zaveid banters, but Lailah gives him a pointed look, “about what?”

“That you could not forget me,” Lailah asks in a small voice, a heat creeping up her cheeks, embarrassment at its finest. 

“Lady Lailah, you know I’m a man of my word.”

Lailah nods along, averting her gaze. How silly of her to ask such a question.

“I wouldn’t-- no-- I couldn’t ever forget you,” Zaveid has never been so honest in his life. He cups Lailah’s chin as gently as he possibly can, he knows she’s not delicate at all, but she looks as if she’s made of hand blown glass, perfect. Lailah’s hands fall to her lap, comb landing on Zaveid’s quilt without a sound. When Zaveid kisses her, it is as if her whole body blooms, a rose in the spring. His free hand blindly reaches for the bow of her cape, untying the knot and letting the fabric slide off her shoulders. It’s even softer than he imagined. The cape falls to the floor, but neither make a move to pick it back up. After a few moments, Zaveid leans back, still desiring more, desiring Lailah, with her shining lips and wide, glittering eyes. 

“Even if I tried.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to ask for my tumblr/twitter, and if you're here for my BTS pieces, thank you so much for being patient and allowing me to write hetero anime video game ships <3


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